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mad dog

Warmth wrapped around me like a heavy quilt, anchoring me in the hazy space between dreaming and waking. I’d been in bed with someone, but every time I leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head. No matter what I did, her mouth stayed just out of reach. It drove me crazy because if we weren’t kissing, we sure weren’t doing anything else.

The memory slipped through my mind, fuzzy and frustrating, but not enough to wake me fully. My body was too content. The sheets were soft, the air was still, and something solid and steady was pressed against my back. I didn’t want to move.

As another tug from sleep pulled me under, the dream returned. She felt good snuggled against my back with her arms wrapped around me. I tried to remember what she looked like. Brown hair, hazel eyes, lots of muscles, and neatly trimmed scruff. He was beautiful, so I turned over and tried to kiss him again, but no go. Even asleep, he pressed his lips together and turned his head away.

Shit. I couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone this much. My dick was hard enough to ache, so maybe if I crawled on top of Holky, he’d…

Holky? Holy fucking shit!

My eyes jerked open, so I was awake, right? At least I thought I was. Had I been asleep? Fucking hell, was I dreaming about Holky, or had it been real?

It couldn’t be real because he was in his room. I forced myself to focus and glance at the door. It was still closed, so Holky was down the hall.

Whatever I’d been dreaming, the part about my dick being as hard as a rock was true. I needed to figure out why the fuck I’d had a dream like that about my new buddy. A dream , I told myself. It was only a dream.

Behind me, someone groaned. The voice was low, and all at once, everything came back: Holky knocking on my door, saying he was cold, both of us nervous as hell. My heart had fluttered when he crawled into bed with me, turning my brain into a tangle of nerves and confusion.

Unsure if he was asleep, I tried to turn over to see him. It was no use because he was wrapped around me, with an arm slung across my chest and a leg draped over mine. He groaned again, and holy shit . That was a dick. A hard one. Pressed right up against my ass. I squeaked— squeaked —and froze in place.

“What?” His voice was rough.

He’d loosened his grip enough for me to roll over, and this was sure as hell no dream. The second I saw him, need roared through me, hot and sudden. My pulse slammed so hard I could feel it in the ache of my cock. Holky—Jesus, Holky —was still wrapped around me. His breath, which had been hot against my neck, now ghosted across my face. Every inch of me was pressed against him, and it felt right.

His eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile tugged at his lips until he blinked fully awake and gasped. “Fuck. Oh God, I’m sorry.”

We stared at each other, panting like we’d run sprints. Then he shifted, and our cocks brushed together. Holy hell. My spine lit up, and a low moan slipped out. He was as hard as I was, and it felt insanely good.

Wait—what the fuck? That was his dick. Mine touched his. I’ve never touched a guy’s dick before. Shouldn’t I be panicking? Isn’t this the part where I bolt out of bed and lock myself in the bathroom with an icy shower and a lot of deep, manly regrets?

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

At least not until another jolt running up my spine made me rock my hips. Our cocks bumped again, and we both groaned. His eyes went wide. Mine probably did too.

We were… Well, what the fuck were we doing? I couldn’t think because all I wanted to do was kiss him. It made no sense because I’d never even thought about kissing a guy, yet there I was, practically vibrating with the urge to lean in and see if his lips were as soft as they looked.

I braced myself for the freakout. It had to be coming, right? Any second now. I was in bed with a man—a teammate , for fuck’s sake—and all I could think about was kissing him. That was unbelievable. Kisses meant something. They said things you didn’t have the guts to say out loud. But what the hell was it I couldn’t say?

I was straight. So was Holky. My boner was simply a physical reaction. It’s probably normal to get this turned on when another guy wraps himself around you in your sleep. It should probably be in a brochure somewhere: “Congratulations! You’re being spooned into a sexuality crisis. Please remain calm.”

So, I waited. Freakout coming in three… two… one…

Nothing. No panic, no backpedaling, no urge to bolt. Instead, I thought about how much I liked the heat of his skin against mine and the steady thud of his heart I could feel where our chests met.

Why am I not losing my shit? Wasn’t this the part where I was supposed to unravel? We were practically fused, rubbing our hard cocks together, and yet—it felt good . Right, even.

“Dog?” His voice was raspy, and he still didn’t move.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t… I’ve never…”

“Me either, but this is fucking amazing.”

I wanted to say yes, it’s goddamn fantastic, but I couldn’t speak. My heart hammered because I had no idea what was about to happen.

“What are you thinking, Dog?”

I was thinking this should have been weird. Uncomfortable. Something we could joke about later, shake off with a grin, and say, “Well, that was fucking awkward.”

But it wasn’t. It was the opposite of awkward. It felt perfect .

My mind scrambled for an explanation, anything to make sense of the heat pooled low in my gut and the way my whole body was locked down tight, aching for him—waiting for what might happen. Our cocks knew exactly what they wanted, but I was straight . I liked women. I knew I liked women. Straight men didn’t feel like this, wanting—no, needing —anything like this from another man.

Holky shifted again, pressing his cock against mine. It was solid and unyielding, and— what the fuck —I pressed back. There was no denying what he wanted. His eyes were dark with something hot and dangerous, something that said he was as desperate and lost as I was.

Right then, I didn’t give a shit about being straight, about labels, or about what made sense. All I knew was that I needed him desperately.

Braelynn flashed through my mind—tight dress, perfect makeup, all confidence and curves. She’d come on strong, squeezing my dick through my jeans and offering herself for fucking. Yet I’d felt nothing. I’d gotten hard, sure, but it was a mechanical reflex, not need. My body had gone through the motions, but my mind hadn’t been interested.

Now, with Holky, I felt everything . The fire under my skin was real, and my throbbing erection wasn’t an automatic reflex; it was because I wanted him.

I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t sure what it meant, or where it might lead. But maybe that was okay. Maybe not knowing meant I didn’t have to be afraid.

I wanted to stop time, hold on to whatever this was, and let it unfold. For once in my life, I wanted to stop thinking and just feel.

So I lay there panting, heart pounding, staring into his eyes like a goddamn idiot. The second I moved, the instant this became real , there would be no going back. And I had no idea if either of us was ready for that, not that my body gave one single fuck.

“You’re as hard as I am,” he whispered.

We were so close his breath tickled my lips. The need to kiss him surged again, so sharp it nearly stole my breath, yet I hesitated. What if he didn’t want that? Would it be too much?

The message tone on my cell interrupted my thoughts, but I ignored it. “I sure am. Should we…”

“Do something about it?” He looked like I felt: feverish, lustful, and ready to do anything to satisfy his desire.

I was about ten seconds from blowing my load just from wanting him so much. “Got to.”

“Want to jerk off?” He swallowed hard. “Ever done that with a buddy before?”

I flashed back to eighth grade, the night my best friend, Ben Fornum, slept over. I was in my bed, and he was in a sleeping bag on the floor. The lights were off. We’d been talking about girls, and when things got quiet, we both knew what the other was doing. The air was electric, filled with the sound of rustling fabric. After a minute or two, he grunted softly, and I made a throaty sound while I spurted all over my hand. I wondered if it meant something, if we’d crossed a line, but I was afraid to say anything. Instead, I wiped my hand on the sheet and pretended to be asleep.

“Not really,” I said. “Sort of, back in middle school, but not like you mean.”

“Let’s try it,” Holky whispered. “What do you think?”

My heart thundered so loud and fast I could barely breathe. Would we watch each other? See each other come? What if we squirted some on each other? My throat went dry as dust, but I croaked, “Want to.”

“Me too. Let’s get rid of these damn boxers, and we?—”

Another incoming text interrupted him, and he blinked. “Dog, what time is it?”

“I don’t know. Don’t care.” There were far more urgent matters at hand.

“Look and see who’s messaging you.”

“Why?”

“My phone’s in my room, and I’m afraid we overslept.”

I grabbed my cell off the nightstand and nearly had a heart attack. “Shit! It’s almost five. Harpy says we better haul ass up there.”

“Goddammit!”

“How long will it take?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Fuck.” I was halfway out of bed when he grabbed my arm.

“Wait.”

I turned to face him, and he moved close.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he said, “but I’ve never been a coward about trying new things. I don’t want to start now, so… about what we almost did?”

“Yeah?”

“I still want to.”

“We don’t have time.”

“It’ll have to be later, but I want to share that with you.”

“Me too.”

He raised a hand to my cheek. “That was a great nap.”

“Yeah, it sure was.” I didn’t trust myself to say anything more.

He glanced at the door, then back at me. “We have to get dressed. Move like lightning, okay?”

Before I could answer, he was gone, leaving me wondering what the fuck was happening to both of us. Goddamn. Fucking goddamn.

* * *

Thankfully, Harpy had talked Criswell into letting the guys kick a soccer ball around before the pregame meeting, buying us a little time. Breathless and sweaty, Holky and I burst into the locker room as they were coming back in from the kick-around. Gabe shot us a grin and stalled everyone long enough for us to change into gym shorts and T-shirts before we all filed into the meeting room.

Criswell’s scowl hit me like a slap the second he saw me. My stomach clenched, but he didn’t say a word; he let the weight of his glare do the talking. Relief flared for half a second—at least he hadn’t ripped us a new one before my first game—but it was short-lived. If anything, now I was under even more pressure to prove myself. I couldn’t afford to give Criswell a reason to think he’d made a mistake bringing me up from Syracuse.

I’d pictured my first NHL game a million different ways—some of them realistic, others ridiculous—but I hadn’t imagined it would feel like this. The crowd at Warrior Arena was electric, buzzing with the kind of energy that made the ice feel alive beneath my skates. Chicago had fans everywhere, and as the defending Stanley Cup champs, we had a big following of our own. As a result, the arena was packed.

The game exploded into a feisty start. Harpy won the first faceoff clean and sent the puck my way. I took off toward Chicago’s goal, but one of their defensemen leveled me so hard I slid across the ice and slammed into the boards. I wasn’t hurt, but by the time I got back on my feet, Brody—backing up our line—was already yelling at the guy who’d hit me.

The refs moved in, but the shouting hit a boil. Chicago’s guy dropped his gloves and swung first. Brody dodged, hit back, and dropped him. Then he pinned him to the ice, yelling until the refs pulled them apart. They went to the box for five minutes each, leaving us in a 4-on-4.

Both teams worked hard, but the period dragged until Chicago buried a rebound at the twelve-minute mark. We answered on a power play—Harpy scored the goal—and hit the intermission tied at 1–1.

Early in the second, Chicago scored again off a brutal turnover. We stayed dry until Holky’s line pulled us even a minute before intermission, a slick sequence ending with Abdulov rifling one from the blue line while Blunt screened the goalie.

The score was 2–2. After two full periods, all I had to show for it were burning legs and a stomach full of frustration.

The intermission was a blur of heavy breathing and chugging water while Criswell paced like a caged animal, breaking down our attack. He didn’t yell for effect, but when he snapped his fingers, you listened.

“Keep your heads in it,” he barked. “They’re gassed and they’ve got no legs left. If we find ours, we win. Short shifts, high pressure, and for fuck’s sake, finish your chances.”

Easier said than done.

The room pulsed with tension. Holky clapped Logan on the back and chirped Gabe, but the anxiety was still there. So was mine.

When Criswell left, Harpy stepped forward and swept his gaze around the room. “You feel that?” His voice, low and steady, hummed with fire. “That’s twenty minutes between us and the win. And I’ll be goddamned if I let Chicago walk out of here with it.”

Low hell yeahs rumbled around the room.

“You know what Chicago’s thinking right now?” He let the question hang for a second. “That we’ll let up. Let the pressure drop. But you know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna go back out there and punch them in the gut. We’re gonna skate like demons, check like our fucking lives depend on it, and finish every goddamn play.”

Someone pounded a fist against his pads. The room came to life as tension rolled into momentum.

“Coach is right,” Harpy continued. “They’re gassed. “So we go show them what a truly great team looks like.” His jaw clenched, and he looked around the room. “Full throttle. No let-up. Every shift, every battle, we take a little more out of them until they’ve got nothing left.”

He raised his voice. “This is our fucking house. Let’s go out there and kick their asses back to Chicago.”

The locker room exploded. Fists pounded the benches like war drums, and a chorus of shouts ricocheted off the walls.

Logan jumped up. “We’ll bury the Ice because we’re the fiercest fucking Warriors who ever lived.”

Harpy called for the battle cry, and for the first time, I put my head back and shrieked as loud as I could. The energy of thirty juiced-up men combined and then detonated. By the time the door swung open, we were on the warpath. We blasted into the arena like we’d been shot out of a cannon.

On the bench, I was vibrating with a mixture of nerves and determination. Sweat rolled down my nape, and I pounded my chest like that might shake the tension loose. I’d been playing my ass off, but the stat sheet didn’t care. I needed a goal or an assist, something to prove I belonged.

The problem was, nothing happened. The score remained 2–2, and by the fifteen-minute mark, I was already dreading overtime. Chicago was a damn machine—fast, physical, and relentless. I’d taken a couple of decent shots, but their goalie swallowed them whole. Now I sat gripping my stick like a lifeline.

Holky’s line was out. He won a clean faceoff in the neutral zone, snapping it back to our D, then peeled off, skating hard. I tracked his movement, the way he cut through open ice with an easy speed that impressed the hell out of me. He caught a pass in stride, dangled around one of Chicago’s D-men, and snapped the puck across the slot to Logan, who fired.

Rebound.

Holky pounced and took a shot, but the goalie got a pad on it and sent it into the corner. The second line pressed on, hungry for a go-ahead goal. For a moment, they had Chicago scrambling, but then one of their defensemen flipped the puck out to center ice.

Holky cursed and skated to the bench, signaling the change. His gaze was fierce when his eyes locked on mine. “Finish it,” he shouted.

Harpy clapped me on the back. “Let’s end this.”

My heart pounded as I vaulted over the boards with Richie and Harpy. Brody and Nels were still backing us up. At the dot, my body kicked into overdrive. Nerves? What fucking nerves? I was Mad Dog, and anxiety had turned into fire.

Chicago’s center won the faceoff, and his left winger took the puck and raced into our zone. We weren’t far behind him. The winger rifled a shot from the point, but Brody got his stick in the lane and deflected it high. The puck popped into the air, but Nels batted it down and knocked it out of danger. A Chicago forward tried to get his stick on it but only succeeded in jamming the puck against the boards.

Harpy battled Chicago’s man and dug it out, then threaded a pass to Richie, who exploded up the wing. I drove through center, my lungs burning from the effort. Richie crossed the blue line and feathered a pass to Harpy, who dragged it across his body and ripped a shot. It beat the goalie, but the goddamn post got in the way. The clang of rubber on iron sent a fresh wave of frustration through me.

Harpy grabbed the rebound and flicked the puck to me near the crease. I wound up, ready to bury it, but my shot caught the goalie’s glove.

I swore and circled back. Nels kept the play alive, sending the puck low to Richie. I cut through the slot, looking for an opening, but before Richie could pass to me, a Chicago D-man crushed him against the glass. The puck skittered free, and one of Chicago’s D-men flicked it up the ice to clear the zone.

“Goddamn fuck!” Harpy yelled, and we all joined in. More swearing, more frustration.

I glanced at the clock. Fifty-two seconds left.

Come on.

I turned on my edge, racing back into position as Brody seized the puck and spun away from a Chicago winger, then sent a saucer pass up to Harpy. We transitioned fast, moving as a unit. I locked in, shaking off the missed chances and resetting my focus.

Harpy crossed the blue line, shielding the puck from a Chicago D-man as I cut wide, angling toward open ice. Richie was streaking down the opposite wing, dragging one of Chicago’s men behind him, and suddenly, I had a clear shot.

Harpy saw it, and the instant the puck left his stick, I knew.

The pass was perfect, how it slid across the ice and hit my blade in full stride. Chicago’s D was a step too slow as I pulled back, snapped my wrists, and fired.

The puck shot past the goalie’s glove and ripped into the back of the net. The crowd erupted into absolute chaos.

The horn blared as raucous music pumped from the enormous speakers, but all I could hear was my own ragged breathing as my pulse hammered in time with the flashing red goal light.

For a second, I stood there trying to absorb it: my first NHL goal. Then I screamed, jumping into the air with my stick held high. I landed on one skate and crouched as I sped across the ice. It was the celly I’d practiced since I was five years old.

As soon as I was upright again, Harpy barreled into me with so much force we nearly went down. He grabbed my helmet with his gloved hands and yelled, “You fucking did it! I’m so damn proud of you.” Richie was a second behind, and then Brody and Nels were there. Fists pounded on my shoulder pads as shouts of “Fuck yeah, Dog!” rang in my ears.

We held each other, the best group hug I’d ever had. When we stopped jumping around, one of the refs skated over and slapped my arm. “Congratulations, Madison. That’s how it’s done.”

Coach called for a line change, and as I headed for the bench, Holky jumped over the boards and hit me like a freight train. He pulled me into a hug so tight I couldn’t breathe and practically lifted me off the ice. “It was a fucking beauty, Dog. I knew you could do it.”

I grinned so hard my face hurt. Our moment from earlier came back to me, and I thought about how good it had felt waking up in his arms. “Thanks, Holky,” I said. “Beers later, yeah?”

“Better fucking believe it.” He nodded toward the bench. “Go get some rest while you can.”

The score was 3–2 in our favor. With half a minute to go, Chicago pulled their goalie to gain an extra attacker, but the last thirty seconds ticked down without incident. When the final horn sounded, the building shook with cheers. We piled onto the ice to go see Gabe and celebrate the win.

I’d done it. First NHL game, first NHL goal. And fuck if it didn’t feel better than I ever could’ve imagined.